


10 Pathways to Purgatory; A Kuchiki Rukia Anthology

by ShatteredSwallowtail



Category: Bleach
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 11:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatteredSwallowtail/pseuds/ShatteredSwallowtail
Summary: Another one written for a challenge group, this one was do pick a character and pair them with 10 different other characters. I picked Rukia, my fav in Bleach. Varied ratings across the board but I don't think anything that goes above a hard T rating. Nothing explicit here, though some things implied depending on which chapter you're reading.





	1. Cloudhead Dreams - Shiba Kaien

"Oi! Kuchiki! Quit daydreaming and get it together!"

Green eyes watched the smaller female figure jump in startlement, hands fumbling to catch the unsheathed blade he had just lobbed at her. A bit mean, perhaps, throwing around a naked sword that way, but the kid really had to learn to stop drifting off like that. Shaking his head with a sigh, the vice captain of the thirteenth division raked one hand through unruly black hair before advancing on his 'protege', a look of annoyed frustration in his eyes.

"Come on, pay attention. This is to help _you_ out, you know."

The girl's eyes widened slightly and she nodded tensely, small hands clutching the asauchi in a deathgrip. Raising one eyebrow slightly, Kaien couldn't help but feel sorry for the sword, the way she was practically choking it. At least the weapon wasn't alive, couldn't _feel_ the way any sort of living creature could have. Sensing that perhaps he'd gone a tad too far, he stepped forward with a wide grin, plopping one large hand down on the top of her head and mussing her black hair with a chuckle.

She was so tense, so nervous, as though she really had no idea how to behave among normal, friendly people. In the months since Kuchiki Rukia had joined the thirteenth division, he could honestly say that he'd not seen her truly make a single friend. Granted, the girl was polite and friendly enough in her own way, but there was always a sort of strange detachment about her person, as though she deliberately kept herself separated from those around her and that distance was reciprocated. She certainly wasn't unattractive, she was slight of build and a little on the scrawny side perhaps but her features were striking and there was something almost ethereal about her at times, so one couldn't have said that her lack of friends was due to a lack of appearance. No, it was something else.

He knew her story, knew enough about the girl from Rukongai who had been adopted into the noble Kuchiki clan in one of the most startling of events of that year to know the source for most of the rumors and gossip that he heard here and there. Gossip was gossip, it grew and sprouted despite fuel or lack thereof and -- unfortunately enough for Kuchiki Rukia -- such stories as hers only served as strong fuel for it.

Stepping back, he nodded towards her and gestured with his arm before stepping back to watch. It was easy to see why the rumors continued to circulate. Capable though she was with kidou, and despite how nimble and agile her moves, Rukia's swordsmanship was downright horrible and even those skills that she had in abundance were rough and unpolished.

_She shouldn't have been rushed through academy the way she was._

It wasn't a thought he would have told her, but it was one that Kaien couldn't help entertaining as he watched her move through the sword forms, her footwork and movements still clumsy with her own trepidation. Good shinigami weren't made overnight, despite what the Kuchiki clan might have liked to think, but thankfully for Rukia's sake, that could be remedied.

Honestly, Kaien felt sorry for the girl at times. Nobility though he may have technically been, his family kept to themselves in a part of Rukongai and he'd grown up seeing firsthand the difficulties that most normal souls struggled with. In fact, it was those difficulties and hardships that had fostered in him a love of shinigami, of those who existed to try and serve as a balm to those fears.

Kuchiki Rukia had grown up in Rukongai, and it showed in her face, as well as in the slight shaft of mistrust that she tended to direct at anyone who crossed her path, as though she expected them to automatically look down on her. And it was irony in and of itself that by whatever chance of fate had precipitated it, the girl now found herself on the other end of the spectrum where, rather than being looked down on herself, it was simply assumed that she would look down on them.

A yelp and the clattering of the sword brought his attention back to where the smaller shinigami sat on the grass in a heap, sword abandoned in the grass beside her, nursing a slice to one hand. Scratching the back of his head with a defeated sigh, Kaien sauntered over to her and crouched down in front of her. Reaching out, he snagged the injured arm by the wrist and pulled it over to study the long, shallow slice across her palm with a shake of his head and an admonishing sigh.

"That's what I'm talking about, Kuchiki. You can't keep letting your concentration break like that. If you've got your head up in the clouds, worrying about all sorts of other crap, then you're more dangerous to yourself than anyone else is."

She nodded, sitting almost frozen on the grass in front of him. Still holding onto her wrist, he raised his other hand and held it palm down over hers, feeling the pulse of reiatsu as he worked a light healing kidou onto her hand. As he watched her face, he caught the subtle shift of her eyes from him and back down to the ground as her cheeks reddened slightly. Sighing inwardly, he kept his attention focused on the task at hand.

There it was again, that telltale sign of infatuation he could see beginning to develop. He'd noticed it at first a few weeks back, when they'd started training more together like this. The way she was quieter around him, the way any sort of sudden closeness or action from him had the tendency to make her jump like a spooked rabbit, the way she tended to avoid too much eye contact. He'd seen it before, and it wasn't as though it was in any way a bother to him.

No, her affections -- though he wasn't even sure if the girl was really aware of them herself yet -- weren't a cause for worry. The worry... lay in _his_ side of it. In the realization that there was a part of him answering back to her. A portion of his mind, perhaps even his heart, that resonated with something within the petite girl he'd taken under his wing. And that was something that he couldn't answer to. Perhaps it had to do with her background in Rukongai and his desire to help those like her. Maybe it was simply a warm feeling for a younger understudy.

Whatever it was, it was a dangerous thing not because of what it was now, but because of what it represented. It was temptation, it was a morsel dangling in front of his face, a morsel that he knew perfectly well he couldn't have and yet... that didn't change the feeling. He was strong, he could push the little spark aside and pretend it wasn't there, relegate it to that portion of his mind that harboured warm feelings of friendship and comaraderie and just label it an over-exuberant example of such feelings. That was all it could ever be, and all that it _should_ ever be, if only because it wasn't entirely about him. There was Miyako to consider and, though their marriage had been arranged, he couldn't deny that he had grown to love her, to cherish her deeply. Perhaps it wasn't the sort of love that childhood stories were made of, but it was a love nonetheless and he'd defend it to his last breath.

Shaking his head slightly as he realized that he was still simply sitting there, her wrist held loosely in his hand, Kaien chuckled and scratched his head before sitting back on his heels.

"Ahh, guess you got me there, Kuchiki. This time _I'm_ the one with my head in the clouds."

At his laugh, the tension seemed to break somewhat and she laughed with him before getting to her feet and resuming her training. Leaning against the tree again, he watched her for a moment before turning green eyes skyward to the puffy white clumps floating by overhead. It didn't do to spend too much time with your head in the clouds. Sometimes, you risked getting caught up in the daydreams a little too much.


	2. Compass-Point - Ukitake Jyuushirou

It's his duty to guide them, to watch over and teach those young souls assigned to him. To be a mentor to those fresh-faced and oft wide-eyed new hopefulls as they step from the doors of the academy and fall headlong into a life that he wonders at times if they were properly prepared for. He wonders because he cares, because whether _they_ expect it or not, he expects it of himself to not only guide but to safeguard those young lives. He wonders at times if perhaps the reason why God -- whoever "god" really is, for that matter -- chose not to make him a father is because in so many ways he already _is_ one.

They all pass across his radar, and like a compass on the seas he points every one of them in the right direction, steers them as a captain steers a boat into the gentle winds and lets go the sail so it can soar. Some of them are harder to steer, willful and stubborn nearly to a fault, others placid as a gentle lake in the summer, but ultimately he manages to guide them all. It's what makes him good at what he does, but beyond that it's what makes him _good_.

Every single one of them leaves their mark on him, just as surely as he knows he leaves his mark on their lives. Footprints and scars and even tears at times, but markings nonetheless. And then... sometimes there are those who leave deeper memories. Who touch his heart on a much more profound level than their comrades.

_She_ was one of those cases.

At first, she was simply another face among the crowds, a head of dark hair shading wary and overwhelmed eyes coupled with hands that trembled when they held a sword and a countenance that quaked inside at the thought of fighting. Another child thrust into a world of adults, unsure of her footing, her every fibre showing how green she truly was. He'd welcomed her into their midst as he'd welcomed anyone else.

He'd watched the girl grow, watch as she walked what he was now beginning to see would likely be a solitary path through life. It pained him to see, to stand by and simply guide as she walked, draped in the robes of duty and dilligence that her adoptive family placed upon her. She wasn't like them, wasn't _meant_ for that life of order and structure and coldness. How he knew that, even he himself honestly didn't know, but he could see it in her eyes. See that spark, that shine that spoke of a spirit beyond that which they relegated for her, of a desire and a yearning to be free and soar on the winds.

There was little he himself could do for her, little that he could say or bring to change the life she was brought to. Instead, he left that up to his vice-captain. To the genius child he'd guided from academy, whom he'd watch grow to be the proud and confident man that Shiba Kaien was today. And, as he'd known she would, he'd watched the little bird of the Kuchiki clan begin to spread her wings under her mentor's watchful eye. He'd seen her begin to smile, watched as the layers of shields began to melt away and the girl inside grew.

He'd cried for her the night Kaien died, cried even more inside to know that she blamed herself for what had been _his_ mistake. Watching as she withdrew into herself again, keeping silent vigil as the spark again locked itself tightly behind the walls of rules and duty she built around herself, he could only regret, only curse the illness that had stolen his strength and sapped his energy in that moment when it had counted the most, that moment when he should have struck. It should have been _his_ blade that severed the thread of life from the perverted creature that had taken over Kaien. Not hers. But it was too late for anything other than regrets.

Comforting her wasn't his duty, no matter the responsibility he felt, or the fondness that had grown for her. Had he been a younger man, a healthy man, a _different_ man, perhaps. Perhaps then, he would be able to take the sadness from her eyes, lift the heavy burden of guilt from her back and place it squarely on his own shoulders where it belonged. But he isn't that man, and so that role remains closed to him. She shies away at times, deferring to her duty and the distance in rank between them and he smiles and accepts it and accepts that to her he will always be simply her superior, simply the one she reports to.

It's hard, at times, especially when he sees her sitting on the hill, that cloud of sadness threatening to overtake her, not to wrap arms around her, pull her into his embrace and tell her that it will be alright, that the loneliness won't last forever. Not because he can take it away -- he knows better than that -- but because he sees the way another pair of young eyes watch her, and because he recognizes the way her face lights up when she says the boy's name. But right now, she isn't ready to see that, isn't ready to let go of the past and accept the future. But he knows that one day, she will be. And when that day comes, he will simply step back. Step back and continue to be her compass, navigating her as he can towards whatever future she chooses to lay out. Because that, like so much else, is his duty.


	3. Dangerous Obsessions - Grimmjow Jeagerjaques

An obsession was a darkly dangerous thing. Everyone knew that, and she was certainly no different from everyone else in that respect. She knew well the sultry tangles with which an obsession could ensnare your mind and heart, drawing you deep into it's coils until you could no longer see the way out. That was why she pushed her own fixations back. Out of the way, deep into the depths of her mind where she kept all of those other sinful, dark thoughts that should never see the light of day.

It was difficult, though, to fight the subtle swell of feeling and emotion, the replay of events that filtered through her mind over and over again in an unending loop that brought her -- she was relatively sure -- closer and closer to madness with each passing day. Difficult to distract herself from the scent, the touch... the feel of the espada's fingers clenched around her head, her eye covered with his palm as she felt, _sensed_ the tingling of the reiatsu building in his hand, the cero forming in front of her as she clenched her eye shut as if somehow that minutely thin slip of skin would protect her from the deadly force building.

She could feel that hand, feel it's tightening force around her skull, feel it even in her sleep when dreams would normally chase away all such things. Just as she could smell him still, smell that spiced scent mixed of sweat and something else, something _deeper_ that stirred things within her she knew shouldn't be stirred. It was the same with his voice, with that mocking and arrogant tone that danced through her dreams in a kaleidoscope of sound and fury. Refusing to leave her alone, captivating her even against her own will as she argued with it, tried to deny the one thing that she couldn't lie about. Even to herself.

He fascinated her.

And it wasn't even _him_ that drew her so much, that tugged her in and sent her spiraling down that path she knew she shouldn't tread. It was... something else.

Despite all the long years of her life that she could recall, there was one constant which had remained with Kuchiki Rukia through all of those years. She had been protected. Been guarded and watched, whether by her adoptive brother, by the man she called best friend... even by the boy who she -- against her will, again -- couldn't deny that she had fallen for. And in that protecting, regardless of where it came from, was security. The security of knowing that her safety was kept, that her person was walled away from those things that could threaten it.

The sexta espada... threatened that. He had pushed past those walls, broken through those defenses frantically erected about her by those who loved her, and he had brought the taste and scent of death with him into her world, threatened her in a deeper way than even those who would have brought about her execution could have. Because he had also thrown away the control, all with a hand through her chest and a palm against her face.

It had been the sudden and heavy realization of the closeness of death he had brought that initially triggered it. The rush, the heightened sense of adrenaline, the awareness that came from that same thing coursing through her veins as she came to the nauseating conclusion that struggling was futile, that any and all attempts at escape were worthless. Sending all of her nerves into a heightened state remniscent of a post-orgasmic bliss, sensations drifting down nerve endings at dizzying speeds as her entire consciousness itself expanded into an explosion of colour and sound.

And in that moment, she couldn't deny that she had never felt more alive.

Which therein lay the problem. That feeling was a refreshing blast through the monotony that much of her life had become, like a cold shockwave rushing through her psyche, rocking everything she had grounded herself in. Because regardless of what she told herself, it was a feeling she couldn't shake. She wanted it, wanted more of it. And in that same vein... wanted _him_.

It sickened her, turned her stomach to feel so drawn to an enemy, an _espada_ who would simply destroy her, wipe her off of the face of the map. But at the same time... she couldn't deny it, couldn't ignore it and make it go away. Because that feeling... it wasn't just a feeling. It was a need, a craving. An _obsession_, like a drug in her system that only tightened it's claws around her mind the longer she went without it.

She was broken out of her reverie by the beeping of her phone, followed by Ichigo's barging into the room in his usual loud manner. Scowling to herself, Rukia tucked the phone back into her pocket as she pulled out her ginkongan. It was wrong, and she would die before admitting it, but... perhaps he'd be there again. And there'd be another chance to feel that same thing again.


	4. Facsimile - Aaroniero Arruerei

At first, it had felt strange. Not strange in the way that she might have expected, the oddity of the situation being somewhat lost amidst the shaky haze of familiarity and shock that rippled up as he slipped the porcelain mask from his face, revealing the familiar visage of one she had thought long-since lost. No, the strangeness had come from the sudden rush of warmth, the faint curve of a smile that had hovered unbidden at the corners of her mouth. The almost childlike giddiness that swelled up within her at the sudden image of that wide grin, those green eyes beneath their familiar shock of black hair.

Emotions that she shouldn't have felt. Not because they weren't there, hadn't _been_ there for years, despite the thick and filmy coating of dust that layered those mental shelves where she kept them safe and protected. No, she shouldn't have felt them because this man, this man standing in front of her, was her enemy. His form was the form that stood between her and her goal, her and her aim, that of Inoue's rescue. He was the immovable object, where she was meant to be the unstoppable force that would rise against him in that melody of eternal conflict. Only, this time she was meant to keep that conflict from it's eternal path.

She was meant to stop him.

And in truth, that had indeed been her original plan. How could it not be, when defeating him was the right path, the path that lead to their ultimate goal, and to Inoue's safety. And so she'd taken up her blade at first, the white sword gripped so carefully in shaking hands, violet eyes staring down the one who had once been her teacher, once been her friend.... once been a man she'd loved.

But seldom is it that the plans we make turn out exactly as we would wish them to.

At least, that was the vagrant thought that slipped through her mind as she fought, knowing -- amidst guilt and shame abounding -- that her strikes were pulled, that in spite of all the knowledge, all the reasoning she could give to herself, one cruel and brutal fact remained amidst all the arguements and decrees to the contrary; she couldn't kill him. And not due to lack of ability -- perhaps that played a part -- but in truth because she could not _bring_ herself to kill him.

_Not again._

Even as she felt the hot, stinging trickle of blood against her skin, crimson seeping from numerous cuts and injuries, the hotter rush of shame was the harder sting to bear. Pressing up hot and heavy, forcing it's way past her resolve to wind sinuously around the familiarity that refused to back down, refused to lay silent and dormant in the back of her mind and simply allow her to do what she knew _must_ be done.

She could try to force it back, to remind herself that this was not him, that this enemy in front of her was not the teacher she'd loved, the leader she'd followed. But even that would be all for naught, because deny it though she might, the one who she could not deny was herself. The feelings within her, the _surety_ that despite the turmoil in her heart, despite the horror at the realization, this _was_ Kaien.

He hadn't killed her. Not that she knew that, but it didn't matter to him. In truth, the only reason he _hadn't_ had been because of some simple whim, some little glimmer of interest that she had sparked in him, this woman who fought so valiently and yet so reservedly, never quite able to commit to the killing stroke. Oh he knew why, he had all of the memories, all of the knowledge gained from that shinigami that Metastacia had devoured stored within his own self. And in a twisted way, he had to admire such loyalty as she showed to the man whose face he wore. Enough admiration that perhaps he should allow such loyalty to continue.

It wasn't as though she would ever be that same person again. No, not after the way he'd seen her break, the way her eyes now glazed over, their deep violet obscured by the haze that came not from death -- at least, not the typical sort -- but from the death of something deeper, something more profound. The sort of death that kills the soul and not the body. As this woman now was. Watching, he couldn't help the slight grin as the small figure eased herself to her feet, swaying in disorientation amidst the bloodstained and ice-blasted battleground that his dark chamber had become. Indeed, she would certainly be useful to him.

Striding over, his form again that of the man she trusted, the man she had loved, he reached out to rest a bloodied hand on the top of her head with a grin. After a moment, dazedly, as though still not certain where she was, the shinigami raised her face to him, blanked violet eyes unfocused and far away. And, he surmised, she likely was. Lost far away, fractured mind having locked itself away from the horrors that faced her now, from the unthinkable task of killing -- yet again -- one whose death she already carried with a heavy heart, unwilling to bear the burden a second time. And so she'd broken, shattered into a frail shadow, a mere shell of the person she once was.

A perfect tool.

As those eyes studied him for a moment, he resisted the urge to grin even more as her battered and blank face spread into an almost innocent smile of childish adoration and relief at seeing her "hero" again. Yes, she would be the perfect tool. With a slight chuckle, he ruffled her black hair.

"Good to see you again, Kuchiki."


	5. Many-Coloured Stardust - Kurosaki Ichigo

Carefully levering the wooden sole of her zori against the polished iron rung of the ladder, Rukia gritted her teeth as she tightened small fingers on the sides. It wasn't the ladder's fault, but she was beginning to develop a definite hatred for the metal contraption that had little to do with it's existence and more to do with the abject impossibility of climbing up it easily when one was dressed in a yukata and sandals. Sliding her foot up and onto the rung, she counted mentally and managed two more before her head rose above the edge of the rooftop. Glancing around, she scowled at the figure sprawled on his back on the rooftop as her frustrations easily transferred to his orange-haired person.

Idiot. If he didn't insist on sitting on the damned _roof_ to watch fireworks instead of just going up to the top of the hill overlooking Karakura like a _normal_ person then she wouldn't be stuck here trying to climb a ladder in such cumbersome clothing. Nevermind that he hadn't _asked_ her to come up on the roof with him _or_ that she could have just as easily gone with the rest of the Kurosaki clan down to the festival itself and watched fireworks on a hill instead.

Glancing back down behind her and pondering just how she was going to get her leg up and over the edge of the roof while still managing to remain decent -- yukata weren't always known for staying closed, especially not when their wearers decided to belly-crawl up over the edge of a roof -- the sudden darkening of a shadow overhead drew her attention. Looking up, she found herself staring up at Ichigo's brown-eyed face where he stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at her with a slightly amused look on his face. Hooking thumbs into his dark brown patterned obi, he raised an eyebrow in a smirk that she decided she'd wipe off his face if she only could reach it.

"Got a problem?"

Dumbass, of course she had a problem, his roof was too damned high and she wasn't about to rip the yukata she'd taken the trouble to find _or_ flash anyone who happened to be in the area. Glaring at him, she gritted her teeth and gave herself another hoist -- that proved to be entirely ineffective at getting herself up and over the edge.

"No, I _don't_ have a problem, now shut up and help me up, you oaf."

His smirk didn't go away -- if anything it got wider -- but at least he did step forward and stoop down, one hand wrapping around her cloth-covered forearm to hoist her up as though she hardly weighed anything. It might have been a considerate, even a nice gesture had he not deposited her unceremoniously in a heap on the tiles rather than on her feet. Scrambling up and wrapping the tattered shreds of her dignity around her, she levered a wooden sole against his shin, grinning inwardly at the satisfying reaction of his muffled curse and the hopping way he got out of her immediate vicinity.

Stalking past him and over to where the little ceramic tray of snacks sat barely touched in the evening light, she plopped down on the eave of the roof and stretched legs out in front of her before picking up a stick of dango. Pulling off one of the sticky orbs with her teeth, she chewed thoughtfully, watching the flickering lanterns come on over the city streets as the sky darkened further. Ichigo's muttering voice threaded through the muted sounds of gaiety as he made his way back over to his purloined spot and --wisely, seeing as he probably didn't want to get kicked again. Damned wooden shoes -- settled down on the other side of the snack tray and snagged a slice of seared daikon. Crunching on the browned slice of vegetable, he glanced over at her.

"Why aren't you out with everyone else?"

It was a straightforward enough question, especially seeing as he really had no idea why she hadn't gone out carousing with the rest of his family, that seemed more her sort of thing. Personally, as far as the festivities were concerned, he could take it or leave it. Not that the goings-on weren't enjoyable. He'd already spent a few hours being dragged around the city by Yuzu, enduring his father's idiocy, and while that in and of itself was NOT what he would have called fun, he couldn't deny that it had been a bit nice to be able to make his little sister smile. The food was alright too, and he'd run into several people from school, but he could only handle so much 'togetherness' before everyone started to grate on his nerves. Thus the tactful retreat back onto the rooftops. He could still see the fireworks, and enjoy some of the food.

Just... in peace, something that he couldn't get if his family was around.

Honestly... he couldn't deny that there was a portion of himself that was glad she was there, that actually _wanted_ her to be there. Or at least, he couldn't deny it to the interior of his mind despite the fact that he would deny it to anything else. Things just... made sense when Rukia was around, they fell into place naturally as though she were some internal stabilizing factor to his entire world. It didn't really make much sense to him, but then neither was he the sort of person to spend hours sitting there pondering the intricacies of such things. They just _were_, and that was good enough for him most of the time.

Munching thoughtfully on her dango, Rukia shrugged her shoulders. It wasn't so much that his question had caught her unawares so much as she had realized that she really didn't _know_ the answer to it. Sure, there was the whole point that she'd wanted to see the fireworks, but she could have just as easily gone with anyone else. Chewing on her lower lip slightly -- there was no way she could admit to him that she'd chosen to seek out his company on purpose -- she pulled the last sweet off the stick and set the bit of wood aside.  
"I like watching them from the rooftops. It's... nostalgic, in a way."

He grunted in response, partly because he had his mouth full and partially to disguise the sudden interest her words had sparked. Nostalgic? So that meant there'd been festivals in Soul Society too, though he mentally kicked himself for the sudden epiphany. Of course there had to have been festivals in Soul Society, otherwise there wouldn't have been any need for Shiba Kuukaku's cannon, _or_ for the fireworks that it seemed like the entire Shiba family helped to make. Fireworkds didn't make sense if there wasn't a festival to shoot them off at. But it wasn't really interest in the fireworks themselves, but more an interest in _Rukia_ that was tugging at his attention. The shinigami kept much to herself, despite how close they were, and he respected that. Still, it was so rare for her to open up that he couldn't help prodding her about it a bit.

"So there's festivals in Soul Society too, then?"

It was a measured response, just disinterested enough to seem like a casual, almost requisite reply to her statement. Taking another bite of the daikon, he picked up a stick of takoyaki and handed it to her. She took the snack with a nod of thanks, pulling her cotton-covered knees up to her chest before taking a bite and shaking her head.

"Not the way you're thinking of."

Scowling slightly, he finished the daikon and snagged his own box of takoyaki. The hell did she mean by that, a festival was a festival, wasn't it? At least, that was his opinion on it, his opinion which he passed on in a rather irritated tone of voice. All it got him was her elbow impacting solidly with his ribs, nearly knocking the wind out of him as the petite girl glared at him before resuming her eating.

"That's not what I meant, idiot. There are festivals in _Seireitei_."

He caught the emphasis on the word, and finished the sentence beletedly for her a moment later.

"But... not in Rukongai."

Her nod confirmed it, and the pieces began to fit together a little bit more. He'd been there, been to Soul Society and seen the way the shinigami guarded their own little island of sanctity in the center of that world, shielding it from the normal denizens of Rukongai like greedy mice hoarding cheese. It made him clench his fists when he thought about all the people, _normal_ people, living that sort of life, unable to do something so simple as enjoy a festival. He gritted his teeth as Rukia continued, hands cupped around an apple in her lap as she watched the stars begin to come out overhead.

"No, not in Rukongai. The Shiba clan would make sparklers for the children in their district, and there were some nights were we would all gather to watch them shoot off fireworks for us to enjoy, but that was all we had. But... it wasn't all bad. On nights when we knew there was a festival, we'd climb up onto the rooftops and watch what we could over the walls. The fireworks were the best part. Even if we couldn't take part in the festival, we could still enjoy them."

She broke off as the first bang split the air, sending a shower of multicoloured sparks soaring through the air in a cascade of glittering light, eyes turning skyward as her face lit up in enjoyment. Fireworks were a special treat for her, having lived in a portion of Rukongai too far removed from the Shiba's fireworks factory for any of them to take part in the festivities that family took such pains to create for the children in the area. Clapping her hands in front of her in childish glee, she watched as the rainbow of stars exploded overhead.

Her sudden laughter caught him off-guard, sending a rush of colour to his cheeks as he watched her expression change to one of rapt wonder. He'd almost never seen Rukia like that, so unguarded and open, freed of all the burdens she seemed to carry, burdens that -- would she share them with him -- he'd gladly help her carry. That thought in and of itself was almost as disconcerting as the sudden urge to slip an arm around her waist and pull her against him. Swiftly averting his attention back to the fireworks overhead, he admonished his misbehaving subconscious, pushing those thoughts back where they belonged. It didn't do him any good to let them out again, there wasn't anything that would ever come from it.

Sighing, he leaned his head back slightly, mulling over those same thoughts as he carefully tugged them back out of the cobwebs of his mind -- cautiously making sure they stayed as _just_ thoughts -- and turning them over in his head. Ichigo wasn't stupid, nor was he naive enough to not have realized how his feelings for his small companion had changed over the course of their time together. It hadn't been a long process in and of itself, it had been the realizing that had taken awhile. The realizing and beyond that, the acceptance.

But where realization had been hard, and acceptance even harder, by far the most difficult thing had been the ignoring. The teeth-gritting realization that regardless of his own feelings, regardless of what he might have -- begrudgingly, at least to himself -- wanted, he couldn't act on it. She didn't feel the same, didn't _see_ him the way he saw her. To her, he was just a kid. Just her friend, her partner for the hunt. And even beyond that, they were so different. He human, she shinigami. When this was all over -- whatever 'this' was -- she'd leave, abandon him and go back to Soul Society. Where she _belonged_.

The thought soured his mind -- it was _her_ opinion, not his. As far as he was concerned, she belonged _here_ and damn anyone that tried to say different -- because he knew that if it came down to it, this was one fight he likely couldn't win. Because, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew perfectly well that he couldn't fight _her_. And not just physically, but on any front. No matter what he wanted, he couldn't force her to stay if she really didn't want to. So he would just keep it to himself. Easier that way, keep it hidden and avoid the inevitable hurt that was bound to follow any revelations he could share with her. He supposed it was bitter comfort to know that at least when the time came and she left, she'd have Renji. He knew the redhead adored Rukia, would give his life and more to keep her safe and happy -- just as _he_ would, that snide portion of his brain commented -- but it didn't make the idea of her and the tattooed shinigami together any easier to swallow.

"Ichigo, look! That one's purple!"

Her gleeful exclamation didn't distract him as much as the sudden tightness of her arm around his as she looped one smaller appendage around his elbow with a squeeze, pointing the other hand heavenward as yet another morter exploded overhead to rain indigo-hued sparks over Karakura. She was right, it _was_ purple, almost exactly the same shade as her eyes. At least, that was what his brain helpfully -- helpful to **what**, he couldn't say, it certainly wasn't being helpful in regards to his determination NOT to do something he'd undoubtably regret -- pointed out to him as he felt the lump rise up into his throat again. Swallowing past it he simply nodded, thankful that she was too engrossed in watching the multicoloured explosions to notice the way he couldn't tear his eyes off of her.

He'd never denied -- at least to himself, when he wasn't feeling contrary -- that he found Rukia attractive. Sure, she wasn't tall and lithe, and she didn't really have much in the way of curves to speak of, but... he liked her that way. He liked how tiny she was, how she could somehow still manage to make him feel like a little kid being scolded even when she was yelling _up_ at him from the nearly foot difference in their heights. He liked how she was so slender, with just a hint of curves to her small frame. The way her hair looked so soft, how despite the light breeze in the evening dusk, that one errant lock of hair still managed to find it's way into the center of her forehead. To him, Rukia was just... well, she was _Rukia_. He wasn't one for fancy words or any of that mushy crap to describe how she looked right now, sitting there with her hair pinned up at the back of her head with the violet-flowered clip, or how the shade of pale lavender-blue of her yukata turned her eyes a deep violet in contrast. If he'd _had_ to, about the best he could probably have managed would be that she looked "ok".

Which would have gotten him punched or something. Girls were weird like that. Either way, it was a moot point, seeing as nothing would ever come of it anyway. At least, that's what he kept telling himself as a means to distract his mind -- among other parts -- from the disturbingly enjoyable feeling of her torso pressed against his arm, the faintest impression of her head against his shoulder. At least he couldn't automatically -- because that's what it would have been, just a natural reaction -- slip his arm around her waist or shoulder when she had it in a death grip like that.

"..Thank you."

Her quiet words drew him out of his inner musings as he turned to look at her smaller form, his arm still hooked into hers as she leaned against his side, her dark eyes still trained on the fireworks overhead. He wasn't really sure exactly what she was thanking him for, and he told her as much as he looked down at her. Rukia smiled slightly with a shrug, turning to look up at him. It wasn't as though he understood, as though he knew how she felt, how much she wished she could stay like this, stay with all their friends, with the family that treated her as one of their own. With _him_. Truthfully, there was so much she was grateful for, so many things she wanted to thank him over. He'd been the one to bring all those things to her, the reason why she now felt so saddened whenever she was reminded of the fact that one day -- and likely sooner, rather than later -- she'd have to leave. Managing a whistful smile at him, she shook her head slightly.

"For... a lot of things, I guess. I'm just.... glad that I met you, is all. So I'm thanking you for that."

He bit the inside of his lip, not only at her words but at the look on her face. He knew that look, had seen her make it before and knew it for what it was; her reminding herself -- indoctrinating, he'd have said -- of the "fact" that she couldn't stay here, that she had to leave one day. Bullshit, as far as he was concerned, and it made him angry that she couldn't just accept that she didn't belong there, she belonged _here_, no matter what her stick-up-the-ass brother or anyone else said or thought. But even beyond the sudden shaft of anger at the way she'd let herself be so convinced that those bastards were right, what bothered -- and startled, seeing as he'd never expected to feel it -- him more was the abrupt rush of what he could only describe as _fear_. Fear that she _would_ leave, that she'd run away in the middle of the night, gone as quickly and as much without warning as she'd come _into_ his life and he'd be left nursing the ragged, empty hole that he knew without a shadow of a doubt would be left behind once her presence was gone.

That fear was -- as far as he knew, especially seeing as he didn't really _think_ about it beforehand -- the reason why, almost before he even realized what he was doing, he found himself turning slightly, the arm that wasn't sandwiched between her arms coming around as he raised his hand and caught her cheek, turning her face towards his to cover her mouth with his own for a lingering few seconds. Pulling back slightly as the sheer fact of what he'd just done began to sink in, he pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes with a single whispered phrase.

"Don't leave...."

Of all the things she could have expected to happen, Rukia had to admit that this one was definitely _not_ on her list of likely possibilities. Sure, she wasn't going to deny that it had been a fantasy -- hell, even a _hope_ on some levels -- but it had definitely made it's way squarely to the list in her mind that was marked "snowball's chance in hell". She didn't really know what the phrase meant, but she'd heard it used enough times by various people to gather that it had something to do with things that were about as likely to happen as oh, say... Zaraki-taichou deciding to give up fighting. She froze as his lips pressed against hers, resisting the urge to just give in and relax and enjoy it. She couldn't enjoy it, if she did it would just make it all the more difficult when she _did_ have to leave, but her body just wouldn't obey her as she felt herself leaning into it, eyelids slipping closed and mouth relaxing against his. The warmth shifted as he pulled back, still close enough for her to feel his breath soft on her face, his forehead pressed against hers.

Sighing, she felt something inside herself break down at his words, at the faint note of pleading in her voice and she knew without a doubt that it was a losing battle. That when it came down to it, no matter what she told herself, no matter what she knew _had_ to be true, she would stay. For _him_. Reaching a hand up to cover his larger palm where it rested against her face, she simply nodded.

"I'll stay, Ichigo. I'll stay...."


	6. Nameless - Kon

He knew she never noticed. And really, why would he have expected her to? To her, he was insignificant. A sidekick, a "mascot" even. Nothing but a loud mouth and loud attitude, forever trapped inside a casing of fluff and plush. That was what he was to everyone. A stuffed toy, an annoyance. They didn't see him as a person, not someone like them.

It hadn't really occurred to him at first, how unimportant he was, how much there was of the world -- the world _he_ belonged to -- that he simply couldn't take part in. He'd been to preoccupied, too caught up in the simple joys of actually _getting to live_ , in spite of what he'd spent so long fearing -- the destruction of everything that made him who he was -- to realize that even this, even this life he had been given... wasn't a real life. It was a shadow life, a hinted wisp of something he had once dreamed of.

And even then, he'd simply stood back and accepted it. Been grateful for the chance to live, grateful to Ichigo and the others for the way they'd taken him in, kept that sandaled git from simply disposing of him as he'd planned. "Unsuitable merchandise", huh? Well, he had a few things to say to that man, if he ever got the chance. Like how it felt to spend your life -- if what he'd had could have been called a "life" -- being told, knowing that you were considered a mistake, something subpar that didn't deserve the life it was given.

He'd been happy, honestly happy the first time Ichigo had trusted him to take care of his body while he went and did those big important shinigami things that Kon couldn't ever really be a part of. He couldn't fight -- despite what he'd been created for -- , he couldn't roam freely around the town, he couldn't even _eat_ whatever he wanted to do. But none of that had really bothered him. At least... not until he realized something else he couldn't do.

Kon couldn't love.

Not to say that he couldn't feel those same soft emotions towards someone. He could. But in his case... it didn't matter. Because even if it had been someone _other_ than the petite shinigami companion of his "owner", he couldn't ever act on those things. He was... nothing. A modified soul, little more than a glorified battery when you really got down to it. And that was the only way she would ever see him.

It was tempting, sometimes, to take advantage of the times when Ichigo -- rarely now, since he had that damned badge -- allowed him use of the body, allowed him time out of his plush prison, to tell her. To _do_ something, say something. Anything, really, to make her notice him. In fact, he'd almost put that plan into action one day after he'd seen how close Ichigo managed -- accidentally of course -- to get to her. That would work, he'd thought. Take advantage of the teen's body, use it to get close to her and then sweep her off her feet with _his_ charm, _his_ wit, _his_ feelings.

And then he'd seen it. The single thing that sent his hopeful castle of cards crashing down. The flush on her cheeks as she shoved Ichigo off of her while he complained loudly that he hadn't _meant_ to get that close, and it sure wasn't his fault she was short enough to trip over. And amidst his flash of anger at the way Ichigo always spoke to Rukia, Kon could feel a cold pit form in the center of his furry body. Not at the words being spoken, but at what _wasn't_ being spoken. At what he could see, shielded beneath walls barely thick enough to contain it. The way she _looked_ at him, the way _his_ jaw set slightly when she got a bit too close. The way he could faintly see her breathing pick up slightly. And he knew. Knew then that it would never matter what he did, never amount to anything. Even were he to use Ichigo's body, to scream and cry and beg, to plead for someone to notice _him_, it would never happen. She wouldn't see him, she'd see Ichigo.

Because Kuchiki Rukia's eyes were only for the orange-haired boy. And a nameless mod-soul like himself... would never have stood a chance.


	7. Nameless Wishes - Yamada Hanatarou

It had started with a day. Like any other day, really. The sun rose, shinig across the sky in soft golden rays as it always had, setting warmth and light to the world below it, a world ruled and governed by law and rule and tradition. But couched within the subtle strains of music that made up the daily progression of 24 hours was something new. Something different and sparkling, a small mote of diamond amidst a rough lump of clay.

That was the day he'd met _her_. As the boy had made his way along the hallway, studying the scrap of paper he'd been handed that morning. Instructions, not anything very different from the ones he received every morning, the maps and assignments and numbers that dictated his duties. This morning had been no different than any other morning, the only real deviation being that his shift had been altered from the most recent post in eleventh division -- a change he was glad of -- to the barracks of the sixth division instead.

Sixth division was where the prisoner, Kuchiki Rukia, was being held. Unobtrusive and somewhat shy Yamada Hantarou might have been, he still paid attention to the day-to-day occurences that went on in Soul Society and he knew, as most inhabitants of Seireitei did, of the young noble who had done the unthinkable in giving her powers to a human boy. And curiosity had warred with apprehension as he'd contemplated whether he would be assigned _her_ cell.

Hanatarou had dealt with nobility before, and they had all been the same. Cold, impersonal, possessed of that same sort of superior disposition and manner that spoke of the way they looked upon everyone else who was 'beneath' them. The dregs of Soul Society, hardly worthy of even standing beside them. That was the way nobility viewed those around them, and that was what he'd prepared himself for.

He hadn't been prepared for a slight figure crowned by ebony hair who'd turned to look at him with deep violet eyes. Or for a soft voice tinged with both laughter and sadness as she'd shaken her head and asked him to simply address her as he would anyone else. He hadn't expected... a friend.

At first, it had seemed odd, to be conversing with someone of the nobility. To be able to relax and laugh and share with someone who seemed genuinely happy to listen. Someone who actually seemed to _care_, a thing that he'd experienced so little of in his lifetime, constantly ignored and belittled, overlooked and underestimated by all but his captain, who seemed to view him with the same sort of enduring and patient tenderness that a mother bears for her young. His visits to clean her cell became the bright spot of his day, shining a faint glow of hope into days fret with monotony.

It was the look in her eyes that first drew him to her, that prompted him to turn their daily conversations to her, rather than him. And it was once again her eyes that gave away the truth. It had stung at first, to have the faint mote of hope, of dream-wish that someone like her could have possibly seen someone like him in that way. But it was only a repeat of the rest of his life, overlooked and passed over.

It was the way she'd spoken about _him_ \-- he could only assume the "him" in her stories was the boy who'd taken her powers -- that, though he'd expected it to bring pain, brought instead a sense of loyalty, a strong and desperate need to help her, to see to it that the light in her eyes remained lit. For even if he couldn't set it shining with his own actions, he could nonetheless protect it and nurture it. Not because she would ever know, or perhaps ever remember. Honestly, he didn't expect her to. _He_ wasn't memorable, not like the man she spoke of, the one who made her soul come alive and soar on wings of hope and dreams. He was simply.... Hanatarou. Plain, forgettable, unnoticed Hanatarou. One who was never in the spotlight, who was dismissed with a simple gesture at a moment's notice. He wasn't like her, standing on the lofty pinnacle of nobility. He was nameless, faceless, like all the rest. But... that wasn't the reason he would help her, fight for her, die for her if necessary. No, it was a much simpler reason then that. He would defend the light in her eyes, because it was she who had put the light into _his_ eyes.


	8. Painted Words - Kuchiki Byakuya

"Here. Take this."

Glancing up with a questioning look, Rukia reached out one small hand to take the sheaf of paper and pot of ink that her new brother held out for her. Setting the inkwell down beside her, she turned the parchment over in her hands, studying the weight and thickness of it. She'd certainly seen paper before, it wasn't as though the parchment in and of itself was a thing of note. But this was a bit different, a bit thicker and finer, the lines of pulp and substance that made it up were smoother and less noticable, as though the means it had been made were different from the common everyday sheaves they were given at the Academy. Violet eyes flickered back up to blue, a confused look staining their colour.

"Nii-sama.... what is this?"

"That is a sheaf of parchment, and that is an inkwell and a brush. If you meant to ask what the purpose of my giving you these is, then it is because as a member of the Kuchiki family, you are expected to be proficient in the more delicate arts as well as those duties required of a shinigami of the Gotei-13. In this case, the art of calligraphy."

Placing a second cushion beside hers, he pulled out an identical piece of parchment, along with another inkwell, setting it in front of him as he knelt down, carefully ensuring that the pristine white haori was kept well out of the way of any ink spills. Pulling his sleeve out of the way, the captain of the 6th division carefully dipped a brush into the ink and began to write. Without any words, she understood the unspoken command. "Follow", picking up her own brush and beginning to carefully mimic the lines and curves he painted on the parchment, black ink stark against the cream fibers.

It occured to her that this was odd, perhaps a bit out of sorts, for the head of the clan to be teaching her what she was relatively certain most nobles would have dubbed a menial and trivial task, an arduous and frustrating length of practice for something that anyone with any degree of real couth should have studied from the time they were children. After all, there were plenty of servants who could have just as easily taught the newest member of their illustrious masters' clan the simple skills that she needed to integrate herself into the world of privilege they enjoyed.

And yet, no servants came, no one appeared to relieve Kuchiki Byakuya of this task, in fact the only time that any of the numerous house servants even so much as appeared with a tray of tea, they were sent away with a simple word and a gesture, as though their mere presence was bothersome to him. And still, the smooth strokes across the paper, the steady rhythem of the art. Dip, stroke, sprinkle, dip. Over and over, until she'd learnt the strokes by heart, and there was something akin to pride dwelling there. The sun had traveled low in the sky, golden-orange beams sliding across the floor when he finally set the brush aside, simply nodding to her as he got to his feet with a seemingly effortless grace, and simply turned and left.

She thought that would have been the end of it. Now that he'd satisfied whatever urge had possessed him to stay in the first place, there would be servants to take over. But yet again the next day, the same repeated.

And it would continue, over and over, day after day until the days stretched into years and she had long-since learned all the necessary ins and outs of the skill. He kept coming, sitting for hours at a time, saying nothing, only writing. Sometimes there would be tea, or a small tray of sweets -- always for her, he never seemed to eat or drink anything during such times -- and still the writing.

It was a mystery to Rukia, why the cold man who was her brother would take such pains to continue their afternoon ritual every day. But after days and weeks and years filled with silent touchings of brush to paper, she understood. Understood that it was the only way that he knew how. Knew how to express enjoyment of her company, the pleasure he derived from her presence. The only way he could show the love he felt. It had taken an overheard conversation, a casual mention among the house-servants of how nice it was to see the two of them that way, of how much it reminded them of the days when he would join Hisana-sama while she worked over her calligraphy, simply content to remain at her side, never needing words or gestures or any other form of communication to convey what was in thier hearts.

She came to understand that he'd sat by her at first, for Hisana. For the memory of a dead, beloved wife whom the newcomer resembled to such a striking degree that it was nearly painful, and yet impossible to deny the small portion of mind and heart that wanted to relive, wanted to believe that by recreating the moments of memory, he could recapture what he'd lost. And for a time, that had been the case. Until he'd come to understand that he no longer saw the girl as a replacement for the wife he'd lost. Rather, she had grown dear to him in her own way, for her own soul.

Saying such things as "I love you", and "stay with me" were not his way. Nor was he blind to the way violet eyes so like and yet unlike those he'd cared for were always turned away from him, looking up and beyond the walls of the Kuchiki estate, seeking -- he knew -- a brilliant spot of orange against the sky, listening for a loud and obnoxious voice to call out her name. She didn't see him the way he saw her, and perhaps she never would. And that was why he let her go, stood by and watched as she followed her hero into the dangers of Hueco Mundo, saught the safety of a dear friend in need. She would be all right. Because whether she returned crying or smiling, she was following her heart. As he followed his. And it was for that reason, that Kuchiki Byakuya placed an extra cushion, along with parchment and brush, alongside the smaller one every afternoon, and would continue to do so every day afterward.


	9. Starless Sky - Abarai Renji

Sighing, Renji laid back against the cool softness of the grass, folding arms behind his head as he leveled brown eyes on the darkening sky overhead. These nights were getting less and less frequent, less time to be had when he could escape his responsibilities to the Gotei-13 and just relax, not having to think about paperwork and training schedules and Kuchiki-taichou's disapproving stares when he realized he'd dozed off on _top_ of said aforementioned stacks of paperwork and started snoring, not to mention all the pressure he was getting to take over one of the currently vacant captain positions that he just _knew_ Yama-jii was itching to have filled as soon as possible.

And it wasn't even as though there were candidates lacking. Hell, these days any 3rd or 4th seat with enough gumption was clamoring for the chance to apply themselves for the honour and prestige that a captaincy was certain to bring. Which was why it didn't make much sense to Renji why everyone was all on his case about it. Not because he was like Ikkaku, bound and determined to stay in his place and follow the man he admired until the day he fell -- hopefully in an honourable battle -- doing what he loved. No, Renji wasn't like that, he _wanted_ to advance, to climb higher and higher, reaching for those far-off stars that he'd always strived for since nearly as long as he could remember.

Since he'd met _her_.

Scowling, he sat up abruptly, running a hand through his touseled mane of thick red hair, shaking bits of grass from the unruly ponytail he always kept it in and frowning even more as the tie came loose, sending the mass cascading down around his shoulders. Damned hair. He'd thought of cutting it, considered it for a long time -- long hair was a pain, he honestly didn't see how Ukitake managed with his the way it was -- but couldn't ever bring himself to do it. _She'd_ always loved his hair, always scolded -- and sometimes hit -- him for failing to take care of it when they were kids, enough to the point that he never admitted to her that the precise reason why he didn't brush it was because he loved the way it felt when she'd brush it for him. Hell, even the fact that she practically beat him into the ground in order to tug his head into her lap and comb out the wayward strands hadn't really been a problem compared to how nice it had felt to feel her small fingers threading through it.

Shaking his head, Renji swore under his breath, expression darkening. It was stupid, foolish to get so caught up in memories, in remembered shards of things that would never be, not again. They'd gone too far, drifted from that path they'd originally set out on. And now there was no going back. Raking crimson strands from his face, he crossed his legs again, mind automatically spiraling back to the original problem that had sent him up here onto the hill in the first place. The one he didn't really want to think about, but it wasn't like they were giving him a choice. All of them, pushing him, when they couldn't understand -- and he had to give them at least a little leeway with that -- why he wouldn't just up and take it, take the chance that had been placed in front of him, especially when nearly all of them knew that it was his _dream_, the thing that he'd strived for for so long.

But then, they didn't understand that it wasn't about the position, not at all. Nor was it about some supersticious bullshit over how 5th division had been Aizen's division, and that fact carried some sort of hidden stigma that he didn't want to broach. Renji wasn't that sort of supersticious type. Nor did it hurt to point out that before it had been Aizen's division, it had been Hirako's division, and -- though they'd invited the group of exiles back, offered them amnesty and a new place in their order, they'd all declined -- for all that he could tell, Vaizard or not, the blonde was a good man.

None of them understood that it was all about HER. She'd be happy for him, hell, she'd probably kick him in the face if she knew he was persistently putting off just _making a damned decision_. But then, she could be oblivious about things, even though he knew he'd have been kicked even _harder_ for saying that. Sighing again, he cast his eyes back up towards the now-dark heavens overhead. He couldn't keep putting it off forever, despite how much that sardonic voice in the back of his head dared him that he could sure as hell try. At some point, a choice would have to be made. And it was ironic, _so_ ironic, that the path which he had long-ago thought would bring the two of them together, would now pull them apart. He'd made a fatal -- in his opinion -- choice all those years ago, pushing her towards the Kuchiki clan rather than baring his soul to her and just _telling_ her what he really thought, really felt. That as much as he wanted the best for her, he wanted _her_.

But now, he would be moving even farther away, even more distant to her. A captain's position would mean prestige, honour, status. But it would also mean more hours, more paperwork. Being confined -- more than he already was -- in this place while she stayed in that town, with that boy and all their other friends. Moving even further away from him.

"So here's where you went. I figured."

Eyes widening slightly, Renji just barely managed to hide his surprise -- and dismay -- at the familiar voice, turning to see the very object of his thoughts standing a few feet away. It was a practiced gesture to clamp down the dull ache in his chest at the sight of her, to make sure his eyes never rested too long on the way the night sky's dim light glimmered off hair the same shade of black, or how the faint glow from Seireitei was reflected in the deep indigo-violet of her eyes, a practiced gesture that he employed yet again as he turned back towards the sky with a noncommital grunt.

Maybe she'd go away, or say or do something that would make it easier to pretend things were settled between them, so he could act "normal". Like a friend, a brother, a comrade. Someone she'd grown up with, not someone who wanted to take her in his arms and promise her the world. Not that his wishes -- at least, the ones along that vein -- were ever really granted. As it seemed this one would not be, as she settled herself on the grass behind him with a frown and a disapproving sigh as fingers reached up to pick leaves out of his hair.

Idiot. He never could seem to manage to take care of his hair. If she didn't suspect that he kept it long simply because that was how he'd _always_ kept it, she'd have wondered why he didn't just cut it off. Not that she would have wanted that. It would have been such a waste, such a terrible waste. Rukia had always envied his hair, the richness of it's colour, the way -- despite awful care -- it was always so thick and smooth and shiny. Unlike her hair, which was -- in her opinion -- boring and unruly and refused to do anything she wanted it to.

There were a lot of things she admired about Renji, honestly. He was an honourable man, brave, courageous. All things that she knew perfectly well, things that she knew even before he joined up with Ichigo and the rest of her friends to save her from her execution. Just as she knew that there was a good deal more to Renji than most people assumed. Knew that he had his issues, his worries and fears and regrets.

At least one such regret, she knew was centered around her. And truthfully, it was a regret that she sometimes shared, most notably at times like these, quiet times that they would spend together like this on increasingly rare occasions. A regret for time lost, and time given away. For time that they couldnt get back, and the yawning emptiness where a promise for that time to be returned should have rested. Should have, and yet it remained empty. She'd always assumed it was because they were both too damned stubborn to admit it.

Renji's yelp of pain as her fingers snarled in a tangle brought her out of her musings, and she frowned, the flat of her palm striking him in the back of his head. If he'd just sit still and stop complaining, she could get the knot out.

"Idiot. Sit still and it won't pull. Or maybe if you brushed it once in awhile, then you wouldn't have this problem."

Sighing in mock disgust and resignation, she rummaged in the small tote bag she'd brought with her and pulled out a much-worn hairbrush. Winding a chunk of Renji's long red hair around one small fist, she gave an authoritative tug, not quite able to hide the smug sense of satisfaction at the vicecaptain's startled exclamation as his head came back with a jerk to land in her lap.

"Now just stay still, or I'll pull harder."

Carefully spreading thick tresses across one leg, she took the brush and began to work out the tangles, just as she'd done when they'd both been much smaller. It was nostalgic, really, the weight of his head in her lap, the slight motions of his body as he simply scowled for a moment and then relaxed, his breathing the only movement as he closed his eyes. Staring down, she let her eyes trace over the lines of his face, so familiar yet still so changed, the dark inked lines of his tattoos mimicking those of Zabimaru -- she'd never seen it, but he'd told her once when they'd been younger -- and accenting his sharp, angular features. Everything about Renji was like that. Spiky, angular, hard. From the sharp planes of his face to the jagged black lines on his skin, even his attitude. In truth, she was probably the only person who'd ever seen beneath that sharpness.

It was a luxury that she treasured, held close to her heart along with the memories of many more times spent like this, times that she had to admit she was saddened at the loss of. They'd drifted farther apart than she'd really ever thought possible, and yet somehow after her near-death during their time in Hueco Mundo, they'd become close again. Close, but still held apart by some thin barrier, something that she didn't understand and yet feared. It was as though, by acknowledging it and overcoming it, it would change everything.

Sighing, she continued brushing, pushing the difficult thoughts from her mind and concentrating instead on the simple nostalgia of the moment, violet eyes slipping closed. He probably thought she didn't know, didn't understand -- at least to a degree -- why he kept turning down the promotion offers that were placed on his desk, why he didn't seem to care that if he waited too long, the chance would fly away. She honestly didn't remember where she'd heard it, or who had said it, but she knew. Knew that so much of what he did was for her, and for _them_, although there'd never really been a "them", despite the fact she couldn't deny that there had been a time when there was. But now... what was there?

He kept his eyes closed, not only because it allowed him to savour the feeling of her warmth against him, the slightly tingling sensation as she ran the bristles along his scalp, working their way through tangled vermilion strands, but also because he knew he couldn't do it. Couldn't lay here, head in her lap like this, and look up at her without wanting her, without reaching up to run his own fingers through midnight-hued locks, without snaking a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her down to him and kissing her the way he'd always wanted to. And that wasn't fair to her, it wasn't fair to just _take_ like that, no matter how much he wanted it. Letting a sigh escape his lips, he muttered to himself, hardly even stopping to think that she could hear him, or that she'd understand.

"...still just a dog chasing the moon, I guess..."

Violet eyes opened for a moment, studying him. Obviously, he must not have realized what he'd said, OR that he'd said it aloud. Catching her lower lip in her teeth, she fought the sudden pang of regret that suffused her. Had he really... for so long? She'd always known he considered himself beneath her, unworthy. That was why he'd pushed her in the first place, why he'd let go and shoved her towards the Kuchiki clan with both hands. For her own sake, even though she'd not wanted to admit it, hadn't wanted to accept that he cared more for her than she'd know then, cared enough to make them both miserable in order to see her go farther in life.

_But I never wanted to go alone, Renji..._

Drawing in a shaky breath, she set the brush down, reaching out with one hand to carefully trace the black lines across his face, following the ink across his skin before gliding a fingertip along his jawline. She could feel him gasp -- though he did a good job of hiding it -- feel the muscles tense and him hold his breath before she swallowed and opened her mouth.

"Renji... maybe you've been chasing it for too long...."

Now it was her turn to hold her breath, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip as brown eyes opened, staring up at her from above a sudden -- she could have been wrong, in a dim light -- flush across his cheeks as he studied her for a moment, before his eyes shifted away, mouth setting in a hard line.

"Probably... but it's hard not to, when it's right there in the sky."

Hopefully she didn't realize what he was really talking about, she _couldn't_, otherwise she'd have likely been long gone, or turning the topic to something else, something safer. At least, that's what he thought until she leaned over him, an uncustomary softness in her eyes, and he had to catch his breath yet again at her next words.

"Renji.... look at the sky. There's no moon. So..... you can stop chasing it now."

And with that, she leaned down, hesitantly and as though unsure if what she was doing was right, and pressed her lips gently against his.


	10. Strategic Reasoning - Urahara Kisuke

He always had his reasons, even if no one ever asked for them, or ever really cared to know them. It just made sense, because how many people _really_ did things without any sort of reason at all behind them. If you'd asked Kisuke, he would have looked at you funny and pronounced you a very strange person indeed.

In fact, to Kisuke, it didn't always matter really _what_ that reason was, so long as there _was_ a reason. He reasoned that was one of the things about him that aggravated Yoruichi the most. But regardless of exactly what those reasons may have been, the fact did -- and always would -- remain that they were always his _own_ reasons. Reasons that sometimes defied all senses of logic that anyone else brought to the table.

Sometimes the things that Kisuke did, quirky reasons notwithstanding, were easily decipherable. That is to say, that those around him could, with a relative degree of ease, figure out at least the most likely pathway of thought which had lead their unofficial "leader" to the destined point whereupon which he'd made this or that odd choice. It was in those instances that they would often sigh, and scratch their heads, and simply chalk it up to "well, that's Kisuke".

But even then, when they had him all figured out -- or at least, they thought they did -- there were often still layers beneath the ones they'd discovered. Like an onion, concealing itself within layer upon layer of protection and deception, never quite revealing all of itself to the world. It was a metaphor that he'd never minded, despite the fact that he'd made certain to act appropriately wounded when Tessai -- or was it Yoruichi? -- had suggested it. No, an onion suited him just fine.

He didn't mind that they didn't often understand the reasons _behind_ the reasons, as that worked out just perfectly for him, allowing him to keep his innermost thoughts and feelings apart, revealed only to those whom he let into his confidence -- and those names were few.

Much like his reasonings that summer. The summer the ryoka had come to him, that first summer he'd been able to actually _meet_ his friend's son, not to mention the others that Ichigo had brought with him. It wasn't even as though his reasons for involving himself were entirely pure -- they weren't -- or even because it was due to some debt he owed, not only to one of his oldest friends, but also to Aizen, for the treachery that had initially changed everything. No, his reasonings this time had, in his own opinion, been far simpler. At least, the the thinkings of most people. To Kisuke, it was a mystery why the fixation had struck him.

He'd noticed her when she first showed up, noticed her the same way that he noticed all the new shinigami that came to this place, all of the green recruits and conscripts fresh out of academy with barely any experience under their belt. They were all the same, and generally they all left in the same way. Reassigned to another post, killed off by Hollows, or sometimes just vanishing away with no sign they'd ever been there. It was the way of things, and it certainly wasn't as though he didn't understand that -- he did.

But her... she was different.

At first, he chalked his interest up to the simple fact that she wasn't like the others. Hell, she could barely handle herself, and honestly he wondered from time to time at first if Seireitei hadn't taken leave of their senses in their decision to send what someone who by all rights shouldn't even have been out of academy to take over the Karakura post. It just didn't make sense, until he'd learned her name.

Rukia. _Kuchiki_ Rukia.

With those two words, a few pieces had fallen into place, and he'd grown to feel somewhat sorry for the misplaced child who he reasoned was now being expected to carry the weight of the Kuchiki clan's approval on her slender shoulders. But then, that made things make sense. While there were numerous people in Seireitei whom Kisuke wouldn't have put it past to stick such a green, barely-capable girl out this way, that family would have been at the top of his list. Mostly because -- at least as far as his knowledge of them went -- it would have been unseemly to have the girl NOT rushed through her schooling and placed into a position that frankly, she wasn't ready for.

Maybe it had been the simple fact that he felt sorry for her that had lead to the loose watch he kept over the girl. Or perhaps the curiosity that was stirred when he found out that she was the _adopted_ daughter of the Kuchiki clan, rather than it's legitimate member. And a relief to him too, because he hadn't liked the thought that he was interested in what might have been Byakuya's daughter, seeing what he knew of the boy -- now man, obviously -- from his past. Either way, it didn't really matter. Whatever the reasons, he kept an eye on her, occasionally providing subtle aid to her -- never when she knew, or anything that she would have noticed -- as she did her job.

He watched her grow, and he had to admit that for such a green kid, she was a quick learner. Weaker with a sword, her kidou skills were formidable -- even if still juvenile in some ways -- and she was quick and sharp enough to compensate. But it wasn't even really her physical growth, or even the growth of her skills that was the drawing point for Kisuke. Instead, it was the way he watched her spirit grow.

Where first, he'd seen a frightened, somewhat overwhelmed girl, trying desperately to shoulder the emotionless and stern facade of the Kuchiki name, pushing aside her feelings and emotions and clinging to the doctrine that had invariably been impressed upon her, she was now a polished, accomplished shinigami who did her duty with the same ruthless efficiency that they all did.

Only.... that wasn't all that had changed.

He noticed it months before the fateful meeting with Kurosaki Ichigo, well before the orange-haired young man had even been a thought in her mind. Noticed the way she would sit on the rooftops during times when there weren't any Hollows. Noticed, even beyond the normalcy of those moments, the way she watched the denizens of Karakura. The way she studied them, and the way they went about their normal lives. He noticed, even if he knew she didn't, the way those dark violet eyes would deepen, their expression saddening just slightly, as of someone lost in a private regret.

Her history wasn't an unknown to him -- he still had resources, he just had to be more subtle about it -- and it wasn't as though he didn't know she'd grown up in Rukongai, had no true "family" save that of the one that had taken her in. Knew how she was childhood friends, schoolmates with the current 3rd seat -- and soon-to-be vice captain, if his guess was correct -- of the 6th division -- Kuchiki Byakuya's division -- and that she was an unseated in Ukitake's 13th division. What he didn't know, at least not in regards to records, he didn't _need_ the records to see. Her face as she watched the people on the streets told him all of that.

Kuchiki Rukia... wanted to be human.

Kisuke was certain it wasn't anything that she was aware of, in fact had the idea been presented to her she'd probably have been horrified at the thought. But that didn't change the whistful way that she watched the humans, didn't take away the yearning that lurked there in the backs of her eyes. That yearning for the chance to experience what -- and he was reaching on this, but it was just a guess -- she hadn't likely had the chance to experience before. And that certainty, to him, made her all the more intriguing.

It wasn't until that one night, the night that his friend's son's power finally made itself known and Kuchiki Rukia was drawn into it, that he actually _did_ anything about it.

He'd expected something to happen, _been_ expecting it for years, since Isshin's human wife had lost her life to a Hollow drawn to the boy. At the time, Kisuke had wondered if he'd have to approach Isshin about the possibility of sealing the child, simply to protect him. But luckily -- for some people, at least -- little Ichigo's mind had done the job for him, subconsciously shutting that part of itself up for years, until it started to leak out again. But in spite of the fact that he'd, for all intents and purposes, been _waiting_ for something to happen, he hadn't expected it to play out so well.

That night had been the time to make himself known. Not to Ichigo, but to _her_. That had been his thought -- or at least, _one_ of them -- as he'd walked carefully through the drizzling rain, geta clacking softly against the concrete, umbrella in one hand, to stand in front of the waifish girl in the white kimono who sat almost dazedly beside the crumpled heap of human-turned-shinigami. She'd been startled at first, then suspicious -- not that he could blame her, afterall he _was_ a strange man wandering around in the rain -- when he'd offered his aid.

It had worked out perfectly, though ultimately he'd been forced to reconcile that perhaps doing so without her knowledge had been a bit of a low blow. But it had been enough. The gigai had nearly succeeded in making her human, and had it been able to do so, it would have gained him his goal. That of having the Hougyoku sealed away forever withint the confines of her soul.

But beyond that, it would have given life to his other goal. The one he kept to himself, not so much because it was something to be ashamed of, but because there was no need to share it. Things may not have worked out as he'd intended them to, but in a way... they'd worked out for the better. Not because he'd succeeded, but because he'd been able to give her what he wanted to. To give her a taste of that life, of that world that she unknowingly craved. A taste of _freedom_.

Just that one little taste, so fleeting as it may have been, he'd hoped would be enough. Enough to make her see, to make her realize and perhaps even... enough to make her _choose_.

He might not have been able to give her that shadowed dream... but maybe he could give her the wings to fly to it herself.


End file.
